


When you don't remember me

by isyotm



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyotm/pseuds/isyotm
Summary: Asra spends a night alone in the desert, reminiscing about the past.





	When you don't remember me

**Author's Note:**

> A belated happy holidays to tumblr user [nyxulric](http://nyxulric.tumblr.com)! You asked for something sexy, but then my brain also decided to make it sad. Sad sexy? Saxy? I'm sorry. (The apprentice in this fic is their adorable [Thistle](http://nyxulric.tumblr.com/post/168363467950/i-swear-if-this-finallt-uploads-ill-die-but-here)! Seriously what a cutie I could die)
> 
> This fic takes place after the main character has lost their memories but before the events of the game. Title is referring to "Remember Me" by Rebecca Sugar.

Nights in the desert are cold.

Asra doesn’t remember them always being so cold. But then once he had someone to share them with, another body tucked up next to his generating warmth and heat. Someone to distract him with stories and laughter and magic and love out here in the middle of nowhere, a place where nothing grows.

The sky above him is clear, a dark blanket with thousands of diamonds sewn into it, each one sparkling and winking at him like it has a secret it’s dying to share.

He stretches his hand up, reaching for the stars. Like this, it looks like they’re within his grasp, but in reality they’re still so far away.

The irony of the metaphor doesn’t escape him.

 _When I named a star after you, I didn’t mean for you to become like one._ So far and yet so close. _Please don’t be out of reach forever. Even if things don’t ever go back to the way there, it would be enough just to see you smile at me the way you used to._

He huffs and rolls onto his side, annoyed with himself and the maudlin turn his thoughts have taken, and shivers as a breeze blows across the empty landscape, cold air and desert sand eager to slip in between the gaps where his bedroll doesn’t drape close enough to his frame. He shivers and tucks the cloth more closely around his shoulders.

It was a mistake to come here again. To come here alone when everything between them was still so broken and he had no idea how to even begin to fix it. The desert was vast, an unknowable alien landscape that stretched far beyond the edge of the horizon, but it felt like every inch of it was filled with memories of her. _Everywhere I go reminds me of you. Even the places I’ve never been to before._

They could make new memories here. Some day. If that was what she wanted.

He pushes those thoughts away roughly.   _She needs a friend now. Be her friend. Nothing more._ The thought makes something in his chest ache and for a moment the life he sees stretched before him feels like the desert: Empty. Cold. Lonely.

 _Enough._ He came here to get _away_ from thoughts like these. _Go to sleep._ He pulls the cloth of his bedroll up higher around his shoulders, closes his eyes, and waits for sleep to claim him.

* * *

 

He feels warmth washing over his back, late spring sunlight wrapping itself over his tired body and lending him its strength. It’s been so long and he’s so close to home, his body is running on fumes and anticipation. _Just a little bit further. I’m almost there._

He turns down another street and the sigh of the shop up ahead makes his knees weak with relief. He doesn’t like to be away, especially not without Thistle.

He unlocks the front door, the quiet _click_ almost inaudible over the sound of the world waking up outside. He smiles at the familiar sight of the shop counter, the potions lining the walls, the old scarred wood of the counter. It’s empty, but that’s to be expected. It’s still early, the city streets outside still devoid of all bodies except for the earliest risers. At best, she’s just woken up. He knows her habits. She’s probably not ready to start her day just yet.

He moves towards the back of the shop, pulling aside the dark heavy curtain that separates the front where they work from the back where they live and sleep. He can hear sounds of life floating this way: Happy humming, jewelry jingling and ringing. The sounds of home.

He spies Faust curled up in a spot of light and brings a hand to his mouth to shush her as she sleepily raises her head to stare at him. She flicks her tongue to taste the air, nods, and tucks her head back down against her coils, promptly falling asleep again.

 He continues sneaking down the hall until he reaches the door to their room. It’s ajar and he opens it wide, drinking in the view.

Thistle is awake, her hair pulled to one side as she focuses on a wide canvas in front of her. From this angle, it’s difficult to make out exactly what she’s painting, but he knows he’ll love it and she’ll never be satisfied with it and they’ll spend two days arguing on and off whether or not she should throw it out. He can’t help but smile fondly at the thought.

It’s been so long since he saw her.

He gingerly shuts the door behind him, doing his best not to make a sound. Luckily, she still hasn’t noticed him. He’s been away for so long, using his magic to help people in far-flung corners of the country, and they didn’t think he’d be able to make his way home for at least another week. This is his chance to surprise her.

He picks his way carefully among the materials littering the floor, avoiding dirty brushes and empty canvases and half-used bottles of paints, although his caution seems unwarranted; today, Thistle is wearing almost every bangle she owns and the sound of them as she paints is a wonderful kind of music, the delightful ringing that reached him earlier hiding his presence until he’s standing right behind her.

He peeks over her shoulder to see a canvas full of color, a riot of red and gold with a white cloud floating over a pillar of warm brown in the middle. It takes him a moment to realize this is him, albeit seen through the eye of Thistle’s visions. He resists the urge to pout, as childish as that is. She must’ve already Seen he would be coming back today, spoiling all the effort he put into his surprise. Oh well.

He leans forward and presses a light kiss to the exposed length of her neck. “I’m home,” he breathes against her skin. “I missed you.”

She whirls in her seat, arms already reaching for him, nearly falling off the stool even as he moves to catch her, to hold her. He’s been gone for a month but standing here, finally together again, it feels like he’s been locked away in a cell for years, starving and alone, and has been freed at last, the guest of honor at a banquet table. She’s so solid in his arms, the shape of her fitting perfectly, and so warm. He didn’t even realize how cold he’d been.

“I missed you,” Asra says again as he pulls her closer. His lips are pressed against her ear, not quite a kiss, and he feels her shiver at how low and close his voice is.

“I missed you too. I Saw you were coming back soon and I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know it would be today.”

“I’m sorry.” _I’m sorry I was away for so long. I’m sorry it took so long for me to come back._

“For what?”

He opens his mouth to answer but then she’s kissing him and every word he’s ever known leaves him. They’ve wasted enough time on words, he thinks as he melts into the kiss, tangling his fingers into the dark blue cloud of her hair. She tastes like home, like magic, like the spices they grow in their little garden and the colors she stains her lips with on special occasions or when he asks her especially sweetly. He tightens his grip, pulling her hair, and he swallows the delicious gasp she emits.

Their kisses grow more fervent and soon his hands begin wandering over the light, loose clothing she prefers, and then they begin inching underneath, mapping the familiar expanse of tan skin they find. Asra can feel her hands wandering as well, pushing his well-worn traveling cloak from his shoulders and sending his shirt after it.

The feel of her hands on his bare skin makes him gasp, hungry, and his hands start moving with more purpose as he helps her out of her shirt and vest and adds them to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

He kisses a path to her jaw and explores the junction where it meets her neck, sucking a bruise there and enjoying the sounds he gets in response. He traces a path down the length of her throat, glitter tickling his nose and mouth, as he a constant stream of “I missed yous” and “I love yous” falls from his lips, felt more than heard. Eventually, he reaches her chest and he pauses to play with her nipples (a decision which earns him audible, enthusiastic encouragement), biting, sucking, pinching, before he continues his path downward, feeling her anticipation build. She knows what his true aim is and both of her hands reach up to bury themselves in his hair as she lets out a soft, eager whimper.

He pushes at the waistband of her pants, eyes transfixed as the inches of skin and undergarment slowly reveal themselves. It’s a sight he’s seen many times before and each time Asra is amazed that he’s _allowed_ to see it, that Thistle chooses to let him see it. _I’m so lucky,_ he thinks again with awe as he manages to slide her pants past her hips (with some help) and lets them fall the rest of the way to the floor. He sends her undergarments following after.

He smiles at the familiar sight of her freckles, so many of them even here on her hips, beneath her belly button, and the insides of her thighs, and he kisses them, laving his tongue over each one and enjoying the sounds of her excitement as she sees him leaning in and then disappointment when she realizes he isn’t touching her where she desperately wants to be touched.

“You’re teasing me,” she admonishes.

“I’m admiring the view,” he replies with an innocent smile. She buries her fingers deeper into his hair, pulling lightly to indicate her impatience. They’ve both waited long enough. _Come with me next time. I don’t want to be apart from you again._

He doesn’t waste any more time. Just as she opens her mouth to chide him again, he leans in, tasting her for the first time in ages.

The sound that follows is absolutely divine as she reflexively clasps her thighs tighter around his head, holding him in place like she’s afraid he’ll wander off at any moment. _This is exactly where I want to be. I’m not going anywhere._ He lavishes her with attention, his tongue bringing her right to the edge before he moves away, kissing the insides of her thighs and the skin of her stomach, and then moving right back in again as soon as she’s almost recovered. Every time he gets particularly inventive, she whines and pulls him closer.

The sounds start coming more and more frequently, even when he’s backed away to allow her to cool off for a moment, and he decides to add his fingers as well. He hums against her, stroking gently, and then she’s gone, her body stiffening suddenly as she cries out in one long, unbroken sound that he wants to hold in his memory forever.

Asra pulls away, wiping his mouth off on the back of his bare arm, and glances up at her. He loves seeing her like this, floating blissfully after he’s satisfied her. It’ll take a moment for Thistle to come back to him, and in the meantime he occupies himself by brushing his lips over every stretch mark within reach, smiling against her skin when she starts to squirm and protest above him.

“Please. They’re—” She covers her face with her hands.

“I love them,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the mark nearest him. “I love everything about you.” He kisses the pattern of freckles stretched across her left hip bone. “I love your freckles.” He presses his lips back over the stretch marks he’d just been lavishing with attention. “Your stretch marks.” He strokes a finger over the shimmering gold tattoo stretched along her left side, enjoying the way it makes her shiver. “Your tattoo.”

“And me?”

“What about you?” He looks up to see her giving him a lazy smirk.

“The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Isn’t that what people say?”

He leans back, pretending to appraise her, drinking in the sight of her, the faint flecks of gold from her make up reflecting the morning light and making her glow. She looks like some kind of goddess—of the dawn (the thought makes him laugh), of nature, of art, of love—and he feels himself falling even harder and further than he did the last time he saw her.

“You undo me,” Asra says simply. It’s true. “I love you.” _More than words could ever say._

Thistle smiles at that, although he can tell he’s embarrassed her again. “I love you too,” she replies softly.

He leans in again and kisses her sweetly on the mouth as they hold each other, basking in the warm sunlight of a day still young and full of promise.

* * *

 

He knows he’s awake because he can feel the rough fabric of his knapsack-turned-pillow scratching his cheek. The inside of his mouth feels dry and stale, although the sense-memory of her taste still lingers.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. If he does, the dream—the memory—will fade. Like this, he can still feel her, the warmth of her skin beneath his hands and lips, and the thought of having to go another day without cuts him to the core.

“Please,” he whispers, digging his fingers into his makeshift pillow as if that will make the sensations stay. “Please remember me.” _It doesn’t have to be everything, it doesn’t have to be now, but please, please remember._


End file.
